


it's faith (help me)

by rayfelle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Harry Potter is Loki (Marvel)'s Child, Slytherin Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 00:22:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7244701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayfelle/pseuds/rayfelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry may carry Lily’s blood, but he had not even a drop of James’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's faith (help me)

James Potter never married Lily Evans.

They may have lived together in the small cottage in Godrick’s Hallow and they may have been young and madly in love. But no wedding bells rang before their deaths; no congratulations flew over the threshold of their little house.

There was a small child that, people said, looked like James, even if he had Lily’s eyes. A baby boy they named Harry. The Chosen one (but no one was supposed to know about that, _yet_ ).

A secret, can you keep it?

Harry may carry Lily’s blood, but he had not even a drop of James’.

…

Voldemort laughed at the determined face of Lily Evans, her face smeared with tears and pure courage. Who would have thought a mudblood would be the one brave enough to stand before him? And not Dumbledore, the all-mighty?

Irony of life.

Lily’s body still fell limp and cold on the floor; Harry still cried big, warm tears. And Voldemort fell because of a power that did not belong to this world.

Downfall of a monster. (or so they all thought, funny, is it not?)

…

The boy, the cursed child, he was then given away to people who knew nothing but bitter hate and repulsion to everything that was not _them_ and _theirs_. Cupboard under the stairs, no food and no love. Cold winter days and night spent lying in the snow with nothing to cover his skin.

But to Harry cold was familiar and home. It was the one thing that never changed and seemed to love him as he was. His skin turned blue and snowflakes twirled in the dark locks of his hair.

Magic, he thought and did not say.

Freak, the Dursleys hissed low as they locked, starved and beat the child that others hailed as Hero.

Life is an irony, a game of chess where no one wins.

…

The magic of Hogwarts was familiar but not the same. Harry’s skin did not tingle like it did when he touched freezing ice and snow, it did not sing hymns in his ears when he got too close. This magic was distant and tamed – boring. Useless.

The children around him blind to the truths of the world. The adults pretended they did not see and know.

Slytherin, for those of cunning mind and will to succeed, is where Harry went. For the boy followed no one’s path but his own. And friends, well, those never did any good to him anyway.

…

Even with the hate that danced in Snape’s eyes every time that Harry saw the man looking for too long, it was easy to manipulate (escape and lie when needed). Most teachers still remembered his parents, those poor things that now lay in hard earth, rotting.

The past seemed to be more important than the present or the future. Harry could work with that. He had been working with that for a while now.

Pretty green eyes and carefully chosen words – a weapon to weave the lies and gain control.

The Boy Who Lived may be a Slytherin, but his legends were stronger. His name had the power, not the House he belonged to. And this little, jaded thing, he knew how to use it.

…

He makes friends, with time and effort and lies. Blaise is there to keep in check, to control the damage Harry leaves behind. Millicent is pragmatic, blunt with her words as she lists all the things wrong with the school and the world.

Magic is in Harry’s blood, every fiber of his being. But the magic of his friends feels different, less savage and dulled with time. He doesn’t mind, just another thing that put him apart from the rest.

…

There is a troll during Halloween. An injured first year Griffyndor girl and a redhead boy that raises panic. Dumbelodre does not say a word, but the school knows. Walls have ears, portraits even more so.

Harry knows the two, had met them on the train. Ron, who wanted to know the deepest, most painful memories and then got angry when Harry refused to share. Hermione, who thought she knew more than everyone else, even about his own life and past.

Who needs friends like those? Friends that would judge him for the cold indifference, the malicious thoughts humming under his skin and the lies that spilled past his lips freely.

…

Harry goes after the stone, out of curiosity.

Watches the professor try and get it out of the mirror from the shadows.

It’s not his mother’s sacrifice that saves him in this life. He needs no saving. It’s his magic, cold like winter, that slashes open Quirrel’s neck and coats his fingers in warm blood.

Murderer. Just like his father, _eh_?

…

Dumbledore spills tales about love and power, about coincidence and friends. About bravery born from the need to do what is right, instead of easy. Harry listens to him, face hard. This was the man that had put him in the Dursley house; this was the man that had put down his name for years of abuse.

Because, what else had that life been?

“I killed him.” Harry says into the silence stretched too far. Eyes wide and mouth twisted in a smile. “I killed him and I don’t care.” And it’s true. His magic had moved and _demanded_ for something to be done, for the ghost possessing the teacher had been the one who destroyed Harry’s life first.

Dumbledore looks sad and old, blind in his conviction, “No, my boy, you do care.”

 _Lies_.

…

Harry did not return to the Dursleys, not for the summer, not ever. Blaise’s house was large and bright, his mother elegant and felt sorry for a friend of her son’s. Millicent’s parents agreed to anything their daughter wished for, for it was the first time she seemed okay to be so open with another child her age.

The blood wards fell. Dumbledore panicked.

Harry did not reply to any of the letters the owls delivered. The parents of his friends sneered about unfit house and family. About power and magic and blood, about the consequences.

A house is a home only when he thinks of it like one.

…

Ginny lives, Lockhart loses his memories and the diary dies. The snake bleeds poison into Harry’s blood, paralyzes his body. No phoenix comes, but the boy still lives. Just like in the legends told, it’s not easy to kill a god.

Even if he is only one because of the magic alone.

The basilisk dies. Harry lives. Blaise and Millicent open the path for them to escape. Harry keeps his survival a secret.

Once out of the Chamber they are ambushed by teachers and worried parents, by questions and demands. Too bad the kids know not to trust them, none of them.

…

Dumbledore asks for answers. The twinkle in the man’s eyes is intrusive and foreign, a cold touch against the thoughts swirling inside of Harry’s head. And the second it seems like everything will be seen, pried out of him so easily, Harry’s magic snaps and light floods the headmaster’s office.

Something stands between the old man and the young child. Something deathly and strong, something not from this world – familiar in the way the power feels against Harry’s skin. And Harry feels safe. _Protected_.

“Do not touch him. Do not even dare to attempt it again.” That something hisses along the smooth stone of the office before it disappears. “ _My brother will not be touched by you_.” It whispers in Harry’s ears, only for the boy to hear.

The Boy Who Lived. The Boy Who is Feared.

…

Third year starts with an escaped criminal and Blaise’s mother showing what real love feels like. It’s a foreign concept to Harry – love. Something he has never felt, only dreamed about in the darkness of his cupboard.

There are no black dogs, no Knight busses, no escaping from the Dursley house. There is, instead, a summer filled with laugher and warm sun, friendship and someone caring about him, Millicent’s warm hand around his cold fingers.

Later, in Diagon alley while shopping for books, they meet the Wesley clan. Molly and the older boys thank Harry for saving their little sister (their princess), Ron glares jealousy, distrust and hatred over the top of his dirty nose. Millicent purrs about cowards into his ear later on, proves that Slytherin’s stick together till the end.

…

Lupin feels like something wild and untamed, something close to the ghostly shadows Harry sees in his dreams at times. Lupin feels familiar, like nothing else ever has.

(but there was the light, the being from last year, the cold but warm _something_ that protected him)

 _Wolf_ , something whispers in Harry’s ears and the boy breathes in the familiar (and yet, not really) scent of forests and stone cliffs. Old tapestries unravel in his memories and he remembers tales of snakes, wolves and death.

Morbid, but he always was like that.

…

The dementors make Harry remember the way his mother screamed and swore even in the face of death. The memories tell nothing about James Potter, nothing about his sacrifice for the child that was and was not his at the same time.

Patronus never leaps out of Harry’s wand. Blaise and Millicent raise their wands instead and the light that shines through them is blinding, strong. Slytherins always stick together.

Lupin ( _call me Remus, please_ ) told him on a cold December’s day, over tea, that James and Lily never married. Harry wasn’t surprised, not in the least. But then, why was he a Potter and not an Evans?

“Because people like to put their burdens on others, Harry.” Remus looked old and worn, regret filling every fiber of the man’s skin.

…

The dog takes the rat. The three children follow. There is no map, but there are dementors, later.

Sirius breathes out his truth, his version of that night so long ago. Peter, little Peter who used to make Harry laugh with warm hugs and light tickles, hisses his regret and his hatred in the same breath. Blaise casts a _stupefy_ , Millicent kicks the man when he is down, just to be sure.

“You are nothing like James, all Lily. But not really.” Sirius places his skeleton fingers on Harry’s face and his voice breaks. Years in hell, years drowning in blame. “But you are, still, theirs. So brave, so strong.”

Harry feels something foreign wake up inside of him, something that begs to be held and called important, for once. “Lupin told me my parents never married.” He says instead, because the words seem too heavy otherwise.

“No, they didn’t. Lily loved James so much more, in the end.” Sirius whispers quietly, like it was a secret to be buried in the same grave as his body.

The dementors come, but no one is kissed. No patronuses are cast.

…

Sirius still runs and hides - in the shadows, in different countries. He loved Harry, with all his heart, but Azkaban was hell and not all of Sirius survived. Harry wasn’t James, not even a shadow of Lily. It must have been difficult to look at this child, a reminder of deaths hanging upon his shoulders.

So Harry stays with Blaise and Millicent for the summer, visits the threadbare cottage where Remus hides from the world. He will not be teaching next year, not even when his friend was free and his secret still safe. Curse from long ago, more likely.

“You’re a wolf.” Harry stares right into the amber of Remus’ eyes and doesn’t shy away from the truth.

“No, I’m not. And you’re, you’re something else as well.” Remus doesn’t look away either, because the man is no coward. “You smell like something _else_.” He breathes the word and Harry knows, knows that they all know what he truly is.

Instead he smiles and says (does not ask, because no one will tell him anyway; they never do), “I think I remember a wolf. But not you, a bigger one.” Harry can hide behind half-truths as well.

…

“This is utter rubbish!” Millicent glares daggers at everyone who dare to come close to where the three of them sit, her teeth bared in a snarl. “You’re not of age, they can’t _make_ you do anything! Especially when your guardian is against it. _It’s in the bloody rules_!”

Blaise sips his tea in regal silence, though his eyes are glued to the thick tome sat before him. _History of Magical Games and Tournaments_. “Dumbledore is still his magical guardian, since Black is who knows where and halfway to being completely mad.” The boy then frowns and turns the page.

Millicent directs her glares towards the teacher’s tables, mouths her words carefully enough so they can be seen even from Dumbledore’s seat. “Slytherin will destroy you all.”

“Please don’t start a minor war with the headmaster, Milly.” Harry yawns, used to being in constant danger and so close to death. It felt like destiny, really. “I think my magic feels older than I am, so that’s why the cup accepted me.” It’s an afterthought, an idea he has had for a while now.

Blaise snorts into his tea, sticks his tongue out when Millicent shoots him an unimpressed grimace. “Now _that_ we knew a long time ago. Come up with something new for once, _naga_.”

…

The dragon breathes fire against his skin. Harry feels like the kind of pain he had never felt before. His veins fill with lava, half his body freezes with ice in weak defense. But he doesn’t scream, since that would be weakness.

Instead he wraps the magic in the air, forces it to move from his fingertips, to his wand and out, out, _out_. The air freezes, the ground turns to crystal white ice and the dragon roars louder.

( _get the egg, just get the egg, Harry_ )

A simple _accio_ and the task is done. But his flesh still bleeds a murky black, his skin a light blue.

…

He takes both Millicent and Blaise to the ball ( _but professor, you never told me I could not_ ). Of course, there are bewildered looks and whispers not hidden. But Harry is pleased; together with the two people he treasures the most and attending the mockery of a ball.

When the music is slow and romantic, Harry spins Millicent around and her forest-green dress sparkles in the fairy lights. Her laugher light, happy and careless. Blaise has the honor of leading Harry when the songs change to something more energetic, something seducing at times. His robes are light, close to white but not quite, the boy’s eyes alight with amusement.

Harry can feel eyes watching his every move. And he watches back, unafraid.

…

The maze is just another puppet show. Another fake test for bravery and skill (there was nothing brave about killing and evading, nothing that spoke of honor).

Voldemort, but there is just a small child possessed by the spirit, laughs in high pitches and mocks the boy that was his downfall. A death eater with no name and no face prepares the ritual; Harry breaks his bonds as easy as breathing. Then kills the one without a role, without even a name, just as the smoke clears.

( _do you remember your first kill, my son?_ )

“Harry Potter. My… _enemy_.” Tom speaks between hisses, his eyes red and gleaming. A monster he had become, chasing after immortality that those of his status never deserved. “We meet again.”

Harry laughs in turn, head tilted to one side and green eyes gleaming with the feral kind of wild. “It was never my mother’s blood.” The boy breathes in return, touches the cup and is swept away.

…

Order of the Phoenix. Useless, in the face of chaos.

Sirius is back, though. And all he sees in Harry is a shadow of someone _else_ , never just Harry alone (but he loves the boy, he really does). Harry doesn’t care, for he is used to never being _enough_ , never being just him.

There was no such thing for the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One.

“What am I?” Harry asks Sirius as they stand before the Black generations sewn on rough tapestry. “You know, don’t you? Remus as well.” It’s an accusation and it’s also a plea. However, he never begs, just demands.

Sirius doesn’t turn away from where his brother’s death date is covered in dried tears of late Walburga Black. “You were, still are, a taboo.” The man leaves more questions than answers and Harry is tired of them.

…

There are nightmares about long corridors and doors. There is pain that comes with them, a need to look for something, he doesn’t know what.

“Don’t listen to those.” A woman whispers just as the corridor catches fire and everything burns. “This is not your war to fight, not your obligation to win.” She soothes and kisses Harry’s forehead.

When morning comes the kiss still lingers. And Harry hears the howling of wolves from somewhere far away.

But, she had been so warm, whoever the woman was.

…

 _I must not tell lies_.

It sounds strangely amusing to Harry, like an irony of fate. But the thought turns into vapors soon enough, when he starts to bleed black once more.

“ _Freak_! You really are a freak, Potter.” Umbridge gets up so fast the chair behind her clutters on the floor and the cats hiss at them from where they hang on the wall. “Maybe I need to add some other lines.” It wasn’t a question, they never were just questions.

Harry turns his hand, ignores the woman before him. In the candlelight his skin twinkles like ice, the scars now forever marking his skin. “Oh, don’t worry. You don’t know the half of it.” He sneers at the world and wishes it would just burn.

Just like his dreams.

Cursed blood, indeed.

…

There is no Dumbledore’s Army, because Harry doesn’t believe in names. He teaches the kids who no one cares about, the kids that need it the most. The kids that everyone seems to think less about. They meet in empty classrooms, in the forest, where trees hide them from the world and the centaurs keep away.

Because Harry Potter (but he was never a Potter, his name is Harry Evans and it will be remembered, one day) (and even that is a lie, isn’t it) was done playing children’s games. This time it’s the Gryffindors who are never invited to the party.

And Umbridge never finds out. Because fear is the greatest weapon of them all. And Harry knows everything about fear and conditioning, about how violence teacher better than any reward ever could.

..

The ministry is attacked. The ministry falls. Sirius lives, though.

Harry laughs himself sick in the common rooms the next morning.

…

But life has never been one to grant her kindness for long. Not to Harry, of all the people.

Blaise and his mother are forced to run to Italy, Millicent’s father begs her to go hide in the jungles of Brazil, where their cousins live. And Harry kisses them both for farewell, prays for their safety. He will run as well, he refuses to fight for something that is not his to fight for.

If only it were that easy, precious child. If only Voldemort cared as little of the prophecy as you did, oh, sweet summer child.

And the wolf howled towards the full moon, for a sibling was to come soon.

…

Harry stumbles down the rabbit hole, inside the forest where is it said that the beast sleeps. His arm bleeds black and red, blood mixes with earth as he run to hide and to survive. The fog thickens around his feet and leads him deeper, away from the death eaters.

The wolf that meets him is huge; black as the deepest night, with eyes the color of ocean storms. The magic crackles between them and Harry’s blood seeps into the ground by their feet.

Chains break and wounds heal, brothers meet at last. The fog lifts high above their heads and secrets spill out in the open, for a brother can speak of them as easy as living comes to some.

“Brave human brother, for as little as you are, you’ve done well. Hela told stories of you while I slept.” Fenrir’s voice is deep, a rumble of thunder. His skin rough and warm, his fur soft for all that it looks tough as stone.

And Harry feels like he has found a part of himself at last. “What am I?” He asks instead of anything else, because enough is enough.

And Fenrir looks with pity at his human brother, one who has suffered just like the rest of their siblings. They were all cursed, in the end. “You are son of Loki, like I am as well. You are my brother, family. And you, young human brother, are not a mistake.”

…

Harry writes to Blaise and Millicent. He writes about Fenrir and his father. Writes how his surname is not even one that belongs to his mother. He doesn’t write to Sirius or Remus.

Fenrir carries him on his back – for millennia spent chained down is enough for him to run for years without stopping now. No one catches them, no one sees. Voldemort sings his anger and his annoyance with murder and blood spilled.

Dumbledore seeks out to Harry and pleads for help and for sacrifice, for a soldier that would die for the greater good.

The world moves on slowly, the fate plays the destinies as violin strings. And Jormungand waits for his siblings to come.

…

The waters are cold and the sky above the sea is hollow in the middle of a storm. Jormungand rises from the depths and breathes the air of chaos and unease, hisses sonatas of freedom and unfairness.

How amusing, for them all to be banished to one planet, where myths of them were the only things reminding of home. And yet, here they were the strongest, for none could harm them the way Odin could back where their father lived.

“Ah, you are even younger than Hela.” Jormungand slides his fingers down Harry’s cheek (the snake had longed for his human body all these eons, had wished to be freed from his prison). “And yet, here you are, already scarred and having tasted imprisonment.”

Harry grips onto Fenrir’s fur and to the two bothers he looks so much like Loki himself in this very moment. “I need to kill someone.” The boy throws back, because revenge is revenge. “My friends called me naga, as a nickname.”

“Fitting.” Fenrir rumbles from Harry’s side.

…

A year passes and he stands before Hogwarts once more. Magic swirls in the air, it stinks like blood and dark. Something tainted, something pure, something borrowed.

(the magic, the children, Voldemort’s immortality)

Harry stands tall before the Dark Lord and before the Light one as well. His brothers survey the battlefield with boredom and indifference, but their eyes are sharp and miss nothing. Blaise and Millicent stand with Harry between them, like they had during the Yule Ball.

Slytherins always stick together.

“I am not afraid of you.” Harry grips his friends’ hands tight in his, “I will kill you.” He doesn’t say which one.

…

Harry dies, but not really. He walked into death, but not without a fight. His battles, his destiny, his burden to carry and break. But Voldemort fell as well, so maybe it was worth it.

Hela greets him with a tight hug and a kiss on his forehead. “My brave, brave little brother. I am so proud, so proud indeed.” She cups Harry’s face and her lips curl in a smile, sadness lingers in the corners of it. “Oh, if only father knew.”

“I am still alive, aren’t I?” Harry doesn’t want to let go, but he also wants to go back. Go back to the world that was still smoking and still bled, where monsters still roamed free.

“You are. Because the blood that flows in your veins is that of a god. And a god cannot be killed by the means of men.” She looks behind Harry and the blacks of her eyes reflect Lily. Young and beautiful Lily, with fire in her hair and heart. “His toys are already broken.”

And then he wakes up.

…

Tom dies and Dumbledore lives. Harry is hailed a hero of the damned.

Fenrir and Jormungand stay by Harry’s side, be it as human or beast. Blaise and Millicent don’t leave, either.

Remus places his hand on the boy’s ( _a man, already a man_ ) shoulder and shudders, “I am sorry, for what Sirius told you.” The werewolf doesn’t say what, exactly. “We couldn’t… couldn’t speak of it, Lily made sure of it before she died.”

Harry thinks of the way Sirius looked at him sometimes, despite the reassurances of his devotion – like he wasn’t sure if the boy was human or not. “It’s okay. I don’t think I would have accepted it sooner.” Another lie, another half-truth to hide behind.


End file.
